


Let It Snow, I'll Keep You Warm Tonight

by Wizard95



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Cold Weather, Cuddling, Drugs, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild hint at alcoholism, Recreational Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, Sick Enjolras, Sickfic, Slightly depressed Grantaire, Snow, When I say mild, a little angsty, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8847316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: Grantaire can’t stand Christmas. He leaves his friends behind in Paris and goes back to his hometown to drown in sorrow –or rather, wine– until the festivities are over. Cue Enjolras, a very puzzling and insanely gorgeous no-thief who completely ruins his plans.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [botherbutterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/botherbutterfly/gifts).



> I’m sorry if there isn’t much adventure and that I don’t directly address the magic bit! I hope you still enjoy it, though! Merry Christmas everyone! (:

Grantaire’s reached that point in the day where all he wants to do is scream his lungs out. If somebody else gets into the train with any kind of object resembling a musical instrument, he’s going to smash it against the floor before they make any attempt to start playing their repertoire, which, is the same repertoire as everyone else’s. His brain cannot take any more Christmas carols this afternoon. If he so much as listens to ‘Jingle Bells’ again, he’s going to cut his ears off.

He sinks into his seat and pushes his green woolly hat – a very kind present from the very kind Joly – down his eyes. There’s still a long way to go and his flask is already empty, so he’ll have to make do. It’s not like he’d try to drink here inside, anyway. He can already imagine the accusatory looks from the old lady in front of him, and that mother taking her little kid to the next carriage far from the guy with the paint-splashed jumper and patched fingerless gloves.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s asked to get off a train, but in this weather he’d prefer to avoid it. He’ll get an earful from Joly if he gets a cold. He’s going to scold him for an hour and then knit him another set of clothes for the next two. No, anything’s better than a grumpy Joly. Anyhow, none of that is going to happen, because he’s not going to get off the train until it gets to the station, and because his flask is already empty. He liked to play a little game called ‘take a sip every time you hear the word ‘Christmas’’ with himself. He’d run out of alcohol within the hour.

 

When the train reaches its destination, Grantaire rises from his seat, snatches his backpack and gets off without sparing the strangers a second glance. If he hears a gentle voice muttering the words ‘merry Christmas’ as he walks away, he doesn’t think of it.

The town has changed a lot. It’s not like he’s ever paid attention to any new neighbours or buildings around his old neighbourhood, but he’s got a decent memory, and he’s pretty sure there had never been a shopping mall with an ice-skating ring on the opposite corner of the church, as the sign reads.

He makes a mental note not to go into the city centre unless strictly necessary. He’d come here to disconnect, he doesn’t need to see any more people. He only hopes there’s something left in his cupboard or his visit here will prove useless. The last thing he needs is an encounter with his parents' friends in the shop while he purchases a bottle of cheap alcohol to drown in. Let alone a dinner invitation. Oh, what if they drop by to give him a casserole or something? God forbid!

No, he’s not going to leave the house.

 

The place is a little bit dusty – when was the last time he came here? Summer? – but it’s the last of his concerns. He leaves the keys on the keyhole and throws the bag on the sofa on his way to the kitchen. He opens the curtains and coughs as the dust spreads everywhere. Why haven’t his parents sold this shithole yet?

 _Well, it’s a relief they haven’t_ , he thinks. Spending time with his friends on Christmas day would’ve definitely been tortuous. He’d ruin it all. Courfeyrac had already accused him various times of ‘killing the vibe’ and not feeling the ‘spirit’. It was easy for him to say. His life wasn’t crap. He had supportive parents, he had a degree, he had it all. All Grantaire didn’t. Hell, not even Eponine was this _grinchy_ – he’d earned the nickname.

Yes, it was a relief his parents hadn’t yet sold this shithole, because that way, he could survive the holiday. Spending Christmas with the group, baking cookies and hearing stories in front of the fire? It’d be sickening. It shouldn’t be any different to other holidays. But it is. This is the only time of the year he _needs_ to get away. They understand. He’d even stuck around for Valentine’s Day, listened to Jehan’s 4-minute poem about a certain bloke who ‘dressed in deceiving black but whose eyes radiated light’ – Montparnasse had been hiding behind Eponine, Gavroche had recorded it all in video and somehow still used it to get his own way.

There are two bottles of cheap red wine on the cupboard and an expired box of cigarettes next to them. He takes the bottles out, opens one and takes a sip, his throat dry. It’s softer than his usual pick, but it’ll do. He puts the cork back on and is startled for a moment, when he lifts his head and sees a person standing a few metres from the window, on the backyard garden. It takes him a couple of seconds to understand it’s not a person, but a snowman.

“Fucking kids…” he curses, as he rubs his eyes. The garden is covered in snow, and the red scarf around the snowman’s neck dances in the wind. The figure doesn’t look like your typical snowman but more like an actual sculpture, and Grantaire instantly wonders who the fuck got into his backyard garden in the middle of the fucking winter just to make a sculpture of a man which nearly made him shit his pants. Surely not a kid. Probably the junkie of Babet next door – is he still around? Perhaps he can go there for a good bottle of vodka, even if it’s going to cost him twice the price.

He takes a second look at the snowman, frowns, and just hopes he’s not too drunk later to remember there’s a sculpture on his back garden. He doesn’t need to trip and break his neck on the counter.

It’s still bright outside, the sunlight coming in through the front windows is enough to light up the living room. He checks his phone and answers to a few texts, promising Joly he’ll give him a call once he’s had a warm shower, knowing he won’t push the matter. His response is immediate, and it only says: ‘ _gogo! (: have some tea_ ’. R answers with the thumbs up icon. There’s never been tea in this house in the 24 years that’s he’s inhabited it and he really doesn’t want to break that amazing record, so he just takes another sip of the wine bottle he brought with him to the living room, and mutters an apology to his friend.

The air conditioning’s been long broken, though, and there’s a strong breeze coming in from under the main door, so he _does_ go upstairs with the intention of warming up a little bit. He prays all the way to the bathroom for there to be warm water, already picturing himself wrapped in Joly’s knit jumpers and scarves, walking like a penguin as he’s being fed boiling chicken soup. Bossuet mocking him in a corner. His worst nightmare.  

There _is_ warm water, and he takes a ten-minute shower and uses it all. He dresses warmly, puts back on the hat and the gloves, and takes some time to rummage in his old bedroom. He shakes his head at the old _Paramore_ and _Green Day_ posters, has a laugh looking through a couple of school notebooks. It gets dark pretty quickly. He almost falls face down on his way down the first floor – apparently after 24 years, he still thinks there are 16 steps on that staircase – and, it’s way too dark to make out any shapes. He instantly turns on the lights – the bulb flickers for some seconds, Grantaire staring at it pleadingly – and when he’s sure it’s not going to explode, he jumps on the sofa and dials Joly’s number.

He picks up on the third tone, and Grantaire can instantly hear Jingle Bells playing in the background – gosh, he’s going to have nightmares with that song as background music – and then, Bahorel shouting his name.

“Is he drunk already? _I’m_ not drunk already”

“ _Sorry, Courf started it_ ” Joly explains, and Grantaire hears Courfeyrac’s denying the accusation in the background. “ _He says Jehan put something in his drink_ ”

Grantaire scoffs.

“You keep an eye on those idiots, they’re going to end up in the ER”

It wouldn’t be the first time. Bossuet’s the record holder.

“ _Excuse me, have you not met this man?_ ” comes Bossuet’s voice.

Grantaire smiles, knowing he’s on speakers.

“Courf, getting alcohol poisoning on Christmas Eve is no way to win that hot nurse, you’ll just embarrass yourself!” he shouts.

“ _Challenge accepted!_ ” Courf exclaims, Grantaire shakes his head.

“ _I’ll keep you updated.”_ Joly says. _“How’s the house?”_

“Empty” Grantaire shrugs, even though Joly can’t see him.

“ _You did get groceries, right?_ ”

The key here is not hesitating.

“Joly, I’m not planning to starve myself to death, I’m not _that_ depressive, of course I got groceries.”

“What did you get?” he asks before R’s even finished speaking.

“Chinese” he blurts out.

Joly doesn’t answer for a couple of seconds. Grantaire’s crossing his fingers.

“ _You got Chinese take-out on Christmas?_ ”

“Yeah!” R exclaims. Joly’s tone is disapproving, but he believes him. Oh man, that was close. “From Mrs. Cheng’s, remember? I used to have it every Saturday night after school?”

“ _Yes, I kno– will you stop– put that glass back down! R, I’ll call you back, this is a zoo and I’m the only responsible one_ –“

“ _I think you mean party-wrecker!_ ”

“Was that Marius?” Grantaire laughs.

“ _Oh my God, yes, he bumped into a blonde chick at the café and now he’s going on and on about desire and his soul!_ ” Bossuet explains. “ _We’re trying to get him drunk enough to confess_ ”

“That’s cruel” Grantaire says. “Promise me you’ll record it”

“ _Oh, I’ve employed Gavroche for the night. This is going on youtube_. _I’ve got to go, Joly needs back-up_ ”

He smiles and ends the call. The room sinks in silence. There’s still four hours to midnight. He turns on the TV and goes upstairs to get a couple of cushions and a blanket. He settles on the couch with the bottle of wine next to him, the phone on the floor, and Home Alone playing on a very shitty and colourless tv screen. When he wakes up, it’s due to the wine bottle hitting the floor. He’s drooled over the cushion, and there’s a snow storm outside.

He takes the bottle to his lips, his throat dry, but nothing comes out. Letting out a groan, he stumbles off the couch, his hat is lost in the way. He hops on the counter, facing the window – the dim light from the living room makes the snowflakes outside shine as they float around – takes the other bottle and uncorks it, drinking down its content until his throat isn’t dry anymore. He closes his eyes, still sleepy, and is about to drift off in a position his neck would’ve not appreciated, when he hears a _tap_.

He snaps his eyes open. He blinks twice. Frowns. Another tap and he’s turning to glance at the main door. He waits for a couple of seconds. No more taps. Just the wind. Or a rock, or a squirrel – those little fuckers used to steal his Halloween candy every single year. He takes another sip of the wine, and when he turns his head back and sees a man standing outside the window he’s got in front, he spits it all out and manages to fall nastily on the floor. His heart is in his throat. Another knock. He stays lying on the floor. A thief? He can fight, he’s built-up. What if he’s got a gun? A knife? Oh fuck, did he close the door? He can’t remember. He left the keys on, he knows, oh Jesus Christ, he didn’t close the fucking door!

He peeks over the counter. It’s dark outside. No one at the window. They’re going round, they’re going to enter!

“Oh fuck” he gasps, and runs to the stairs, his baseball bat is in his room. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” he whispers non-stop as he climbs the steps – surprisingly doesn’t forget they’re 17 this time – and stumbles into the room. His hands are sweaty, but his grip is firm. He’s at the top of the stairs when he hears the front door opening and very light steps making their way in.

Then, a soft and enquiring “ _Hello?_ ” catches him off guard. What kind of thief is this?

“Hello?! I’m sorry, it’s freezing outside. I didn’t mean to startle you! Please– I was– it’s just very cold outside!”

Well yeah, that’s no reason to get into a stranger’s house though, is it? He left his phone downstairs, damn his luck!

“I mean no harm!” the manly voice exclaims again.

 _Yes, like I’m going to fall for that_ , Grantaire thinks, as he starts descending the staircase slowly. It could be more than one man. His grip on the bat grows firmer as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He can see the kitchen from this spot, and there’s no-one there. Then he hears the bottle of wine rolling on the floor, and knows that the intruder's next to the sofa. The lights switch is at hand-reach. He can turn it off and knock him out. Call the cops after.

He breathes deeply in and counts till three. The room sinks in darkness as he turns the lights off, and though his eyes haven’t yet got used to the change, he swings his bat on the air, aiming at the vague shadow in front of him. It collides with something hard, and then the guy screams out.

“Wait!”

Grantaire aims higher, trying to hit him in the head, but the shadow moves fast. He hears him making for the stairs, and is about to hit again, when the lights come back on. He freezes. The guy is in front of him, both his arms raised in the air in an attempt to shield himself.

R lets out a gasp.

“I’m not a thief!” the guy exclaims, his brow furrowed and his eyes furious. He certainly doesn’t look like one, Grantaire thinks. He’s got nothing but a pair of pants on – a pair of very familiar pants which have dried paint on them, yep, those are _his_ pants – and a red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. His bare chest is pale and his lips are blue. His blonde curls are pointing everywhere, and he’s panting.

Grantaire puts the bat down, agape.

“I’m not a thief” the stranger repeats.

R nods, absent-mindedly, and opens his mouth to say “I know” – no he doesn’t, he doesn’t fucking know, why would he say that? – but no sound comes out. Fuck, this is the most gorgeous, bare-chest thief he’s ever seen.

“Just give me a sweater and I’ll leave” the blond says, his arms still up in the air. Grantaire drops the bat.

“Uh– su– sure” he finally says, good, his vocal chords still work. He turns around and picks a black hoodie from the sofa. Then he hands it over to the stranger. “What is– why are you naked?” he stutters.

The stranger takes the hoodie, his hand touching Grantaire’s. He’s cold as marble. Shit.

“What happened? Did you get mugged?”

The hoodie is way too big for this skinny guy, and he wraps his hands around it in an attempt to get warm.

“No I–“ he looks down.

“What?” Grantaire prompts. “I can call 911”

“No, it’s fine.” He looks up, right into Grantaire’s eyes. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” R insists. A voice in the back of his head is telling him not to let his guard down, this could be bait, it could be a trap – _yes, they’ve definitely seen your old TV and plotted all this out because it’s just so profitable_ – or he could be a serial killer. Yes, the voice is there, but Grantaire doesn’t listen to it. The wind outside seems to just get stronger by the minute, and he’s got Apollo incarnated standing in front of him, shivering and about to – possibly – pass out. Fuck, if this is some twisted Christmas-kink murderer, then he’s found a very good victim. “All right, you can stay.” He nods.

Apollo looks back up, startled by the comment.

“There’s no need” he shakes his head. His body language’s got a different opinion, Grantaire thinks. It’s saying ‘warm me up or I’ll die’.

“If you want to go out there and die of hypothermia, fine by me” R shrugs. _No, not fine by me, I’m not letting you go out there again._

Apollo glances at the big windows, the snow falling outside, and looks back at Grantaire.

“You’re not going to hit me with that again?” he nods in the bat’s direction. Grantaire feels the need to punch himself.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

Apollo snorts.

“You nearly broke my arm” he accuses.

“Well, you did get into my house in the middle of the night” Grantaire laughs.

“I said I meant no harm” Apollo retorts, obviously angry.

_Well, he’s got a temper._

“Dude, you could be a criminal for all I know! I’m sorry for wanting to defend myself”

“My name’s not ‘Dude’” Apollo crosses his arms on his chest, seemingly in a scolding way. But he’s shivering, so it’s just endearing and worrying.

R extends his hand for him to shake. “Grantaire” he says.

Apollo looks at it for a couple of seconds, and Grantaire’s sure he’s not going to shake it, until he takes a step forward and does so.

“Enjolras” he mumbles.

He doesn’t retrieve his hand, and Grantaire definitely doesn’t make any move either.

“Enjolras, you need to warm up.”

Apollo stares at him and doesn’t say anything.

His hand is freezing cold, even more in contrast with Grantaire’s body temperature.

Enjolras nods quietly.

“Bath’s upstairs” Grantaire lets go of his hand and turns around to get a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt from his bag. He didn’t bring many clothes, and everything in his bedroom is way too small to fit either of them. “The hot water lasts like ten minutes or so, there’s soap and shampoo on the cupboard next to the sink if you want to wash your hair.” _They’ve expired two months ago, though._

Enjolras stares at him, again, and doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds until Grantaire looks away, uncomfortably.

“Thank you, Grantaire”

“No problem” R says, already facing away and making for the sofa. He waits until he hears the bathroom door closing to pick his phone up. He’s missed six calls, it’s 00:23. Oh. Merry Christmas to him.

He hesitates. Should he call the cops? Enjolras’ definitely been stolen. Or kidnapped. Or worse, raped. He didn’t seem very concerned though, if he’s been victim to any of the horrible scenarios taking place in Grantaire’s mind. Maybe he’s just one of Babet junkie friends. Yeah, that would explain the nakedness. He might be high as a fucking kite. But he looked him in the eyes, he didn’t look high at all. And _he_ would know.

He groans and rubs his eyes, tired. He decides to phone Joly to get it over with, he can deal with Apollo when he’s finished showering. Perhaps talk him into telling him the truth, maybe he’s just scared.

“Fuck it, I don’t know” he mumbles, as he dials his best friend’s phone number.

There’s a ‘Merry Christmas!’ group chant as soon as Joly picks up.

“Merry Christmas guys” he answers, smiling. “Any update on Marius’ state or inebriation? Has Courfeyrac confessed his love to Combafurre yet?”

“ _IT’S COMBEFERRE!_ ”

“ _None of the above_ ” comes Joly’s voice. “ _What about you?_ ”

Grantaire hesitates, glances at the stairs and bites his lip. He’ll freak out if he tells him he let in a naked guy in the middle of the night.

“I’m not as drunk as I would like to” is what he answers.

“ _How was the pizza?_ ”

“It was good” another glance at the stairs. Should he let him know? If they find him dead on his sofa, stabbed to death, at least they’ll have a lead. ‘ _Hey Joly, if I die tonight, the man you want to find is blond and his name possibly isn’t Enjolras, but he looked like an angel, so I didn’t see it coming, naturally_ ’

“I thought you were ordering Chinese?” Joly asks, and Grantaire mouths a curse.

 _Damn it Joly, you little witty bastard_.

“I did…” he mumbles. The bathroom door opens.

“ _I knew it_.”

“Look, uh, I’m tired, I’m just going to go back to sleep, I’ll call you in the morning, all right? Merry Christmas”

“ _Grantaire, I swear to Go-_ “

“I’ll eat, I’ll eat.” He promises. “Bye!”

And he ends the call in the exact second Enjolras re-appears on the stairs. R turns around and smiles. Apollo eyes the phone in his hand with a scowl.

“Just a friend” Grantaire finds himself explaining with a shrug. Enjolras’ hair is wet, and he’s still shivering, despite having put on both the sweatshirt and black hoodie on. R realizes he’s still barefoot. “Sorry!” he turns around and looks for a clean pair of socks inside the backpack. Enjolras is taking a seat next to him on the coach when Grantaire turns around to hand the socks.

He smells of lavender shampoo.

“Thank you” Enjolras mumbles as he puts them on. Grantaire shifts his weight and moves to the corner, far from Apollo. He puts the blanket around the guy’s shoulders.

“You’re still shivering, are you sure you don’t want me to call the cops? An ambulance?”

“No.” Enjolras retorts coldly – no pun intended.

Grantaire stares.

There’s definitely something fishy going on.

“All right” R answers, surreptitiously putting the phone inside his pocket. If Enjolras hasn’t warmed up in twenty more minutes, he’s calling emergencies.

“It’ll pass” Apollo adds, as if reading his thoughts. “I’ll be fine”

 _I’ll be the judge of that_ , Grantaire answers in his mind as he stands up. “Are you hungry?”

Enjolras shakes his head immediately.

“Well, I’m starving” Grantaire lies.

Enjolras doesn’t believe him, Grantaire can see it in his eyes.

“It’s just next door” he says, “I won’t be long, stay here?” he says, not intending for it to sound like a question. It does, though. Apollo nods and wraps the blanket around him. Grantaire has never seen anything cuter than this guy getting all cuddly on his sofa. It takes great power of will to look away and make his way out of the house. He’s hit on the face by the freezing cold air. He jumps over a bush and lands on Babet’s garden. Gosh, the things he has to do to feed a hypothermic naked stranger that broke into his house in Christmas’ eve.

A huge cloud of smoke engulfs Grantaire as soon as the door is opened. Babet frowns for a moment, his hand going to rest on his belt where R has no doubt, he’s got a knife or two hidden. Maybe a gun.

“Hey” Grantaire greets, seeming as Babet’s waiting for some sort of introduction.

“What do you want?”

He’s expecting an answer such as ‘crack’ or ‘ecstasy’, but Grantaire smiles and wraps his arms around his body.

“I’m Grantaire, from next door?”

Babet takes a drag from his joint and gives him an eye-over.

“R?”

“Yup, can I come in?” he hasn’t finished asking when Babet’s already snatched him by the shirt and pushed him inside.

“Claquesous, Gueulemer” he points to the other two guys sprawled on the leather sofa. “This is R, the kid next door”

The two nod in his direction, Grantaire smiles sheepishly and doesn’t sit down, despite Babet inviting him to do so.

“I don’t actually live next door, I was wondering if you could give me some hot water?”

Babet taps the seat next to him again, and takes another drag from the joint.

“I really have to go, my friend’s sick and my cooker’s not working.”

Ha, _friend_.

Babet rolls his eyes dramatically, and stands up. He gestures for Grantaire to follow him, and he obliges. There are a bunch of unopened black bags on the kitchen aisle, and a scale where his neighbour puts out the joint. Babet puts the kettle on and moves to the cupboard.

“Shitty instant soup is all I got” he says, showing Grantaire the individual packages.

“That’s fine” he nods. “Thanks a lot, man”

He gets a hum as an answer, and then they wait in uncomfortable silence, listening to Claquesous and Gueulemer’s conversation about the best way to grow a cannabis plant. Grantaire stops listening when he hears something that sounds like pissing on it.

“You still in art school?” Babet asks.

“Nah” he shrugs.

Babet’s lightning up another joint and he points at him with it.

“You were good”

Grantaire smiles bitterly. Sometimes talent is the last thing you need, really.

“You used to sell my paintings”

“I gave you half the profit, _and_ free booze. That’s a hell of a deal, kid” he offers the joint to R, who shakes his head. The water’s boiling, and Babet just turns the gas off and hands the kettle to him. R puts the instant soup packages inside his pocket and hands five dollars to his neighbour. Babet hits him on the head playfully, as he used to do when he was a kid. “Get outta here”

R leaves the bill on a table on his way to the door. Babet throws himself on the sofa and Grantaire smiles quickly to his ‘associates’ as he quickly makes his way out of the house. He steps around the bush this time, and gets back into his house where Enjolras is nowhere to be seen.

The first thing Grantaire does is check that the baseball bat is still where he left it.

It is.

He leaves the kettle and the soup packages on the kitchen counter as he calls Enjolras’ name. Did he leave? For fuck’s sake, does that guy have a death wish?

“ENJOLRAS!” He exclaims, louder this time, somehow angry with himself for letting this happen. Apollo will freeze to death and he’ll be responsible for it. He’s dialling the police on his phone when he hears a vague ‘ _upstairs!_ ’

He lets out a relieved sigh followed by a curse, ends the call and climbs the stairs.

Enjolras is in his room, on the bed, wrapped in the blankets looking like a lost puppy.

“It’s warmer up here” he says, “I hope you don’t mind”

He’s still visibly shaking, and Grantaire takes his green hat off and puts it on his head, Enjolras watching him with a frown, but not making a move. Then he takes his gloves off, and that’s when Enjolras feels the need to protest.

“It’s okay, I don’t– “

“Shut up” R cuts him off. Enjolras doesn’t like being interrupted, let alone being ordered. “Or I’ll call emergencies. I’m not fucking kidding” he points at the blonde as he finishes putting on the gloves. “I’ll go get the soup, don’t fall asleep”

He shouldn’t fall asleep, right? At least in films, they shouldn’t.

This time, before going back upstairs, Grantaire checks that the front door is properly closed and decides to close the curtains of the kitchen to prevent any further accidents – that wine stain will never come off. It might be that he’s already drunk or that his eyes are playing a trick on him, but he doesn’t see the snowman on his garden anymore. The wind must’ve destroyed it. _Good. That was creepy as fuck_.

He picks up the bottle of wine on his way to the stairs, and tries not to spill the peas soup all over his hand as he makes his way up. Enjolras is still awake and he follows his every move with his frown and pursed lips. That seems to be his default facial expression.

He accepts the mug with both hands, mutters a soft ‘ _thank you’_ and Grantaire’s heart melts a little bit. He settles on the other side of the bed, kicking his shoes off and pushing the other half of the blanket over Enjolras. He needs it more than he does.

“So, Apollo” Grantaire takes a sip of the wine and turns to look at the blond, who’s sipping at the soup in the most adorable way ever. “How old are you?”

They’re strangers, it’s only natural that Enjolras doesn’t trust him enough to tell him the reason why he appeared on his garden in the middle of Christmas night, naked.

“Oh, and Merry Christmas” Grantaire extends the bottle of wine, waiting for Enjolras to do the same with the mug. He doesn’t. Instead he looks at it with a frown. He frowns a lot.

“No, thank you” he says.

R lets out a laugh.

“Sounds like me” he mutters. Where the heck did this guy come from, that he doesn’t know what a toast is? Did he hit his head? That would explain a lot of things.

“Merry Christmas, Grantaire” he finally answers with a smile. “You’re a good person” he adds.

Grantaire snorts.

 _A lot of people would beg to disagree_.

“I’m 32”

R chokes.               

“No way!” he turns to Enjolras, who might or might not be grinning behind that mug. “No you’re not”

“But I am” he shrugs.

“Look, I know I look gullible, but I really am not” he takes a sip of the wine. “Not in this universe, you aren’t.”

“Maybe not in this one” Enjolras mutters.

Grantaire shakes his head amusingly. No way Enjolras is 32. He looks like he could be a little more than Eponine’s age, hence, way younger than 32. He’s legal, that’s for sure. Not like it’s the most important thing. He’s not going to have sex with a stranger he met less than two hours ago. Has he done that before? Yes. Is he going to try a move on Enjolras? No. Definitely not. He’s got a standard, and that’s more on the level Babet is.

“What did you call me?”

Grantaire turns his head to Enjolras, startled from his reverie.

“Hm?”

“Earlier”

Enjolras has rolled on his side and Grantaire notices he doesn’t have the mug on his hands anymore. _That was quick_. _I thought you weren’t hungry you little fucker._

“I have more soup” Grantaire makes a move to slide his legs off the bed, but Enjolras snatches his arm and pushes him back on the mattress.

“You… don’t want more soup?”

The blond shakes his head, and R doesn’t notice he’s placing his hand over Enjolras’ until Enjolras looks down.

He’s still cold.

He just held a hot mug of soup in his hands, how come he’s not even _a little_ bit warm?

“You’re not warming up” R states the obvious. Enjolras stares.

“I will” he mumbles, and lets out a yawn. _No, no, no sleeping until he’s warm_.

“That’s what you said thirty minutes ago” Grantaire points out.

Enjolras rolls his eyes again. There aren’t any more blankets he can put on him, nor any more clothes he can lend him without falling ill himself.

“Why don’t _you_ just warm me up if you’re so concerned?” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is blinking confusedly seconds later because no, he didn’t just hear that.

“Come again?”

He places the bottle of wine on the night table. Enough of that for tonight.

Enjolras doesn’t answer verbally, but rather comes closer and pulls the blanket over Grantaire, who’s staying still, because this could still be a hallucination caused by that shitty red wine his father used to drink. But wine doesn’t have an expiration date, does it? Isn’t it supposed to get better with age?

Apollo lets out a sort of humming noise and closes his eyes as he rests his head on R’s chest, and Grantaire’s pulse boosts up. What the hell is happening?

“I can sleep on the sofa if this makes you uncomfortable” Enjolras says after a couple of seconds, Grantaire releases the air he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding.

“I should switch the lights off” he says softly, Enjolras seems to already be drifting off, but when Grantaire tries to move, he puts his arm around his waist, keeps him in place.

“Just leave them on” he says, still not opening his eyes.

“O-kay” R’s high-pitched voice comes out. Shit, he’s definitely not drunk enough for this.

“So what did you call me?” He asks again, while Grantaire tries to free his right hand from under Enjolras’ body before it gets the pins and needles. He ponders about what to do with it once he succeeds, and ends up placing it around the blond’s back as a sort of side-hug. Honestly, this is not how Grantaire thought he was going to sleep on Christmas night. “What’s Apollo?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath and slides down to a sleeping position. Fuck it. This is happening and he should cherish the moment while it lasts.

“He was a god, according to Greek mythology…”

Enjolras lets out another hum, prompting him to continue.

“He yielded a bow an arrow, with which he supposedly brought disease and plague, though he also had the power of healing. According to the stories, that is…”

“Hmm”

“He is also linked to light and music, he played a golden lyre, a sort of harp.”

Grantaire looks down. He cannot see Enjolras’ face but his curls are incredibly interesting. Golden, sparkling, each of them unique, emerging from under the woolly hat Joly knit for him three years ago.

“What is it that reminded you of him?” He mumbles quietly, “I don’t have a harp, and I’m not sick”

R keeps silent for a moment.

“Not thanks to you”

He’s pointedly avoiding the question, and Enjolras finally looks up, waiting for an answer. Insisting. Grantaire clears his throat and casts a glance to the bottle of wine while he says: “He was also young and beautiful, and is commonly depicted as… blonde with… fine features”

_‘Fine’ features? You’re an idiot, Grantaire._

Enjolras snorts, like he’s amused, and places his head on R’s chest again.

“Why don’t you like Christmas?” he asks.

Grantaire is relieved Enjolras hasn’t chosen to mock _him_ or his red cheeks. He yawns and can almost feel the blond smiling on his chest.

“My parents kicked me out on Christmas” he says, not beating around the bush. “I was seventeen, I wasn’t even out of school” he laughs. Enjolras’ grip on his waist seems to grow a little firmer, as if he’s trying to comfort him. Grantaire doesn’t need to be comforted. Not anymore. He’d lived so many years feeling guilty, thinking he should’ve kept his mouth shut, that he was a disappointment.

The truth was, his parents were just shitty people. He’d tried to get in touch, yes he had. Once. It hadn’t gone very well, but Grantaire hadn’t had high hopes, so it hadn’t really been a let-down.

‘ _It’s their loss, R_ ’ Bossuet had said, patting him on the back. Joly had given him a hug later in the night when he was a little bit too drunk to pretend he didn’t give a shit. Courfeyrac had cuddled him on the sofa the next day, given him a hot mug of cocoa and tortured him with a marathon of the Disney classics. Don’t get him wrong, Grantaire loves the Disney classics. Courfeyrac singing the lyrics to every single one of the songs in his ear, not so much.

They didn’t speak of his parents, but the truth is Grantaire will never be over it. The fact that he’s here tonight is the very proof. He doesn’t like Christmas. He doesn’t like to celebrate it. He doesn’t like the cold, he doesn’t like the snow. He gets positively sickened by the whole sentiment of it all. Yes, _grinch-y_ indeed.

“But you come here on Christmas” Enjolras states, makes it sound like a question. Yes, there’s still a school picture on the old desk. A couple of books and an old sketch notebook. The remains of his childhood.

Grantaire shrugs. Yes he does. He does comeback because he’s a fucking masochist deep inside.

“I can be alone here”

_At least that was the idea._

“Where do you live, then? The capital city?”

“Yup” he says, wondering if he really has the Parisian accent for Enjolras to guess it in the first try. Then again, most of the population lives in Paris, so he supposes it’s more a matter of statistics. “You?”

R doesn’t expect an answer. After all, he found Enjolras on his living room three hours ago and all he knows about him is his name. If that _is_ his name.

He does get a response, though, albeit not very specific.

“North” the blond mumbles.

“What?”

“I live North”

“To the north of Paris?”

“Not France”

Grantaire blinks.

“Denmark?”

Enjolras shakes his head, his golden hair tickles R’s chin.

“Norway?” Grantaire inquires, and Enjolras shakes his head again. “UK then.”

“No” Apollo laughs. _Oh, he’s taking the piss_.

He’s definitely French. He’s got a French accent and a French name. He _must_ be French.

“Okay then” Grantaire frowns. Apollo is definitely unwilling to share any of his personal information – and Grantaire needs proof, something to hold on to, because Enjolras could leave just as suddenly as he came, and R already feels sick to his stomach simply _thinking_ of the possibility of not seeing him again.

He lets out a sigh.

They lay in silence for a while. R’s certain Enjolras has fallen asleep until the blond moves up the mattress. Their faces are only inches apart now, Enjolras is staring at him again, and Grantaire is holding his breath again. He can notice the slight blush on Apollo’s cheeks.

“You stopped shivering” he points out, not knowing what to say. This guy is a fucking angel and Grantaire thinks he must have done something really good in his past life for this to be happening right now.

“This is against the rules” Apollo whispers, his breath touches R’s nose.

“What is?” Grantaire mouths, almost inaudible, eyes darting to Enjolras’ lips which seem to be getting closer – no, that’s the wine, it’s just a wine-induced hallucination, as per usual.

“Well, it isn’t if _you_ do it”

“Do what?” he mouths again, though he really has no control of what his mouth is saying. There’s a sort of static in his head, his brain unable to process what’s about to happen – what _is_ about to happen?

He sees Enjolras roll his eyes dramatically before he breaks the small distance between them and presses their lips together. Grantaire immediately brings both hands up to Enjolras’ hair and tangles his fingers in the golden curls, the hat falling off. They’re as soft as they looked.

R is running out of breath, and he – regrettably – pulls away first. Blame it on his smoking. He’s panting, and Enjolras’ looks at him with the sweetest eyes and the reddest lips, and fuck, is he in heaven?

“You’re so pretty” he whispers.

Enjolras grins. Grantaire’s heart skips a beat.

“You taste of wine” Apollo licks his lips.

R mutters an apology, interrupted by a yawn – _what a way to ruin the moment!_

“You’re pretty too”

Enjolras gives him another kiss, longer, slower, softer. Grantaire closes his eyes, lets out a hum and hugs him closer. His eyelids are closing and he’s slowly feeling himself drifting off, with the sweet caress of a warm hand on his stomach and the scent of lavender impregnated in his nostrils.

Maybe this Christmas isn’t so bad after all…


End file.
